One in a Thousand; or, The Days of Henri QuatreJames, G. P. R. (George Payne Rainsford)
History
One in a Thousand; or, The Days of Henri Quatre
James, G. P. R. (George Payne Rainsford)
France -- History -- Henry IV, 1589-1610 -- Fiction
"But, believe me, Eugenie," replied St. Real, "Philip has changed. He
loves you deeply, sincerely; and that love will teach him to seek your
happiness by gaining your esteem."
"No, no! St. Real," replied Eugenie with a sigh, "no, no! he loves
nothing but himself. I know him better than you do. While I thought
that, at some time, I was to become his wife, I strove to love him as
great an effort as woman can strive to direct the feelings of her own
heart. In striving to love him, I strove to know him; and thus I
learned all the baseness, all the selfishness, of his character.
Forgive me, St. Real, for using such harsh language: you know it is
not in my nature to speak or to feel thus, except in a case where all
my happiness is concerned: but I wish you to understand at once, and
for ever, that I will not marry Philip d'Aubin--because I do not love
him."
"But might not time, and assiduity, and nobler deeds, teach you to
love him?" demanded St. Real: "for, believe me, Eugenie, better
qualities lie slumbering in his heart, which a great object might
awake and strengthen. Might he not teach you to love him?"
"I would not love him for a universe," replied Eugenie; "for the woman
who loves him is sure to be miserable. But press me no more, St. Real,
press me no more: my resolution is taken--my mind and my heart are
fixed. I do not love Philip d'Aubin--I never have loved him--I never
can love him; and, sooner than become his wife, I would resign all
that I have on earth but the dowry of a nun; quit the world, and seek
peace in the cloister."
St. Real replied but by a sigh; and although that sigh might be one of
sorrow for the disappointment of his cousin, yet it called up in the
bosom of Eugenie de Menancourt varied emotions, that, for a moment,
sent another bright flush across her cheek, which, fading away again,
left her as pale as death. Ere the soft natural hue had returned, and
ere St. Real had time to separate his mingled feelings from each
other, and give to those he thought it right to express, the door
opened, and Madame de Montpensier appeared alone.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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